


Cold Hands, Warm Heart

by THA_THUMPP



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beth is a Florist, Bottom Rick, Closeted Character, Daryl is a Softie, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Lawyer Rick, Lunch Lady Carol, M/M, No zombies - er walkers, Nurse Daryl, Panic Attacks, Paralysis, Persistent Daryl, Psychological Trauma, Rick Grimes is a Bitter Man, Rick is in Rehabilitation, Rickyl, Shane Being an Asshole, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Top Daryl, the struggle is real
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:51:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl Dixon has been working as a floor nurse at Grady Memorial Hospital for the past two years trying to earn enough income to help get his mentally ill brother the proper care he needs. The day starts off like any other, but by mid afternoon Daryl has taken an interest in the new patient on the third floor. Rick Grimes. The man looks blue, depressed, despondent, woebegone, and any other words holding the same meaning as 'downright-fuckin'-miserable' in Daryl's dictionary, so out of the goodness of his big ol' heart, Daryl decides to keep him company when he can and be a friend...</p><p>Only thing is, Rick doesn't seem to want anything from him other than to be left alone. Persistent Daryl ensues, and is... well, <em>persistent</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Guy

**Author's Note:**

> "I thought you were a cop, not a lawyer." Well, sorry to break it to you, Gov, but in this fic Rick is a GD lawyer.
> 
> Don't let our insouciant summary and author's note trick you. This is going to be a bloody dark journey for both Rick and Daryl. It's also going to be a slow build and burn, so hopefully that's your poison? *crosses fingers, tongue, toes, except the pinkies, we probably won't need those... tries to cross them anyway*

“So…” Daryl burbles through one side of his mouth, concentration split between balancing his electronic cigarette between his lips and pulling out a tattered ten dollar bill from the left pocket of his ceil blue scrubs to pay for his lunch. “Who’s the new guy in room 302?”

“You mean Rick Grimes?” Carol asks daintily from behind the cafeteria’s service counter as she collects his money and opens the register, taking her sweet time since he’s her only customer.

“Probably.” Daryl shrugs as he moves the butter rum flavoring of the cartomizer around his tongue, wishing he stuck with his gut and picked something less sweet. “Heard the commotion an hour ago when I was cleanin’ up Reg’s mess in the next room over.”

“I think everybody in the hospital heard him.” Carol says truthfully, handing him back a couple ones before motioning to the donation jar with his loose change in hand.

Daryl nods for her to drop it in. He ain’t really gonna miss sixty-five cents when it’s put towards a good cause. “Hmm, so he a’lright?” He asks as he pockets his snack money for the vending machine downstairs later, waiting a beat to pinch the e-cig away from his lips for a proper puff. “He sounded a bit… I dunno. Upset?”

Carol laughs softly at Daryl’s discreet definition of crazy, resting a hand on her chest like she’s remembering her heartbeat. “More than a _bit_. He nearly shook me from down here in the kitchen.” She widens her eyes at today’s special on the menu propped on the counter. “Almost dropped the casserole.”

Daryl smiles a little at her subtle exaggeration. “What happened to make ‘im react like that?” He asks after another short suck and release, watching shortly as the vapor curls and disperses upwards. “I saw a couple cops leavin’ his room on my way’ta the elevator… He dangerous?”

Carol opens her mouth slightly, but then closes it for a smile, a tight smile, like she doesn’t know if she should say anything or not. Daryl respects her commitment of wanting to maintain a patient’s privacy, but ushers her on with his chin anyway because if his life is in danger that’s a whole ‘nother story. He’s sure any other employee would agree, and he can see that same conviction in Carol’s eyes even as they roll towards the ceiling at his persistent stare.

“No, he’s a lawyer.” Carol finally says after a minute. “Seems he was just transferred here from Harrison Memorial this morning, and that screaming we all heard… that was him waking up from a week-long coma. According to the medical report, his accident was personal. Says somebody involved in one of his recent cases broke into his house and shot him, then his nine-month pregnant wife and twelve-year-old son, who were sleeping upstairs.”

Carol pauses to clear her throat as two doctors walk in and start checking out the line of cafeteria food on display, farthest from them. She turns half an inch towards Daryl, lowering her voice.

“Apparently Rick managed to crawl his way to the phone to call for help, but by the time the paramedics arrived on scene twenty minutes later his wife and son were already dead. As for his injuries, it looks like the bullet hit one of his five lumbar vertebrae, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down.”

Daryl shakes his head in disbelief, suddenly not feeling as hungry as earlier with the inconsolable lump forming in his throat. “What about the baby? It…” There’s another question in there, but he dares not finish his sentence.

“No, they managed to save her last minute.” Carol says in relief, voice like a ray of hope. “I hear they’re bringing her over to our nursery next Thursday.”

“Holy shit.” Daryl dedicates a moment of silence to process the information. “Cops know who did it?”

“If they do…” Carol gives him a small shrug, face reflecting the same sympathy as his. “They aren’t saying much.”

_“You guys talkin’ about Rick Grimes?”_

Daryl and Carol turn in unison to see Shane finish entering through the double doors of the cafeteria, now approaching to join them. As usual, he has one hand plowing through his thick head of hair, a physical sign that expresses how stressful the day’s been thus far. Daryl’s no stranger to the demands of the job, but he likes to think that he has a better way of dealing with it other than being snide, which Shane has a long reputation for.

“What if we are?” Daryl responds in brief. He wouldn’t be caught dead speaking to his superiors or patients in such a tone, but Shane has a way of pushing his buttons and the man knows it.

“That’s some sap story, huh?” Shane spares Daryl and Carol a fleeting glance, mouth twisted and partially open in a captivated smile, as he tries to decide what to buy next to the counter. “Hey.” Today it’s cold coffee, and he points at Daryl with one finger as he grabs a bottle from the small refrigerator, soon standing hip to hip with him as he pays for it. “Twenty bucks says I get assigned as his nurse instead of you.”

Shane’s bet is expected, something that happens between the two of them on occasion, but this time Daryl doesn’t find it appropriate and sends a glare Shane’s way hotter than the sun. Because drunk injuries are his limit. Death is another field entirely and deserves a little deference.

“Man, this ain’t a game…” Daryl snaps, fighting to keep his voice contained in consideration of where they are. “Imagine if that was you up there, wakin’ up only’ta be told that ya lost yer wife, yer son, and the use of yer legs.”

Shane stares at him for a minute, features going solemn. “Shit, Dixon.” He licks his lips as he lowers his head and rolls his forehead high in shame, a notion that quickly loses any credibility with the straight face he can’t hold and the eventual huffed laugh. “If you wanted Rick from the start why didn’t you say so, man?”

There’s another smile in Shane’s eyes, something cheekier, and Daryl scoffs as he shakes his head. Sometimes he can’t believe Shane, ever the opportunist for cracking any form of sardonic remark. Daryl himself has a few swimming in the back of his mind, his foremost being _better it be me than you_ , but he figures it’s easier on everybody’s ears if he keeps the pissing contest to a minimum. Name-calling, though? He can still do that.

“You’re an asshole.” Daryl says pointedly as he finally scoops up his sandwich from the counter, nods his goodbye to Carol, takes one last drag on his e-cig before tossing the whole thing at Shane like a dart, and leaves without seeing it land or miss.

Because fucking Shane and his big mouth… now Daryl _wants_ it to be him.

**///**

Come evening, Daryl still hasn’t tasted his sandwich. He’s been too busy thinking and feeling bad for a man he doesn’t even know, wandering around the halls of the hospital with his head in the clouds. More and more, he’s found this becoming a tendency of his, to want to connect with strangers and try to make friends. He occasionally blames his big heart for being so quick to empathize and his childhood for programming him to give back what he never got, but every now and then it’s been a good thing. For him, but mostly others.

Now, walking the halls of the third floor, he’s hoping he can show Rick some of that kindness without having it come across as pity, but in some way he’s also nervous because he’s been here before. He’s seen what loss does, how it effects those beset by it and how people react to it, and essentially he has a pretty good idea of what’s waiting for him beyond the door of room 302 as he paces by it for a third time, which has kept him from entering as of yet.

Because he knows. He knows there’s a loose gun waiting to go off in there if given the right ammunition and he knows that the man is in a state of mind where everybody’s going to be the enemy. And Daryl doesn’t want to be an enemy. He wants to be a friend. Rick Grimes is in _desperate_ _need_ of a friend, not modus operandi, so that’s what he’s going to try for however well he can.

How well he’s received is up to Rick, and while Daryl doesn’t expect half a day’s time to have taken any of the sting out of the man’s wounds, it’s the thought that always counts in the end… Right?

Daryl begs it so as he finally peeks in through the doorway, thinning his breathing a little like it’s enough to wreck the moment. Unwarranted, his shoes do that for him, squeaking in little chirps with his shy footsteps against the glossed tiles as he approaches the bed, which ends up rousing Rick softly with an aware grunt. The man’s eyes don’t open, but his head turns slowly on his pillow as if seeking the light of the door and Daryl takes it as a signal to announce himself.

“‘Ey, Rick.” Daryl says gently, straight, friendly, maybe a little _too_ friendly, as he forms some kind of smile, enough to be heard in his voice. It’s just the muscles around the right corner of his mouth that perk up for a split second, but it’s all he can summon without feeling cheesy as he sidesteps over to check the screen monitoring all vitals.

There’s another grunt in recognition of the name, and one of Rick’s hands resting on his stomach slides its way little by little to his side, where it stills. The other stays where it is, pronouncing every breath he takes, several of which sounding audibly strained, like he’s still getting used to breathing on his own again instead of through a nasal cannula. His eyes open next with great difficultly, looking weighty in their blinks and soon they’re staring up at Daryl, red with stale tears, groggy with drugs, and irises colored in a shade of blue only found in the arctic.

Ice cold.

It’s a color that makes Rick look empty, as if he’s got nothing left to live for and wants to waste away, especially in light of his features. Skin a dreary gray from the lack of sun, wavy hair losing its curls against the pillow, and cheekbones thinner than they should be for a man his age, giving him an anemic look, like he hasn’t eaten any solid food for the past… Daryl quickly checks the chart on the side table beside the bed, picking it up with a clipboard as an excuse for conversation. … _seven days_ , he confirms and almost contemplates breaking the silence that’s festered between them by asking Rick how he’s doing tonight, but he knows better than to question the obvious.

The man ain’t ever gonna be OK again.

“Name’s Daryl. Some call me Mr. Dixon, others Darren when they can’t remember.” Daryl says respectfully and then kicks himself inwardly for sounding more like a nurse than he originally intended. But wait, he can fix this. “Got this older gal just down the hall who’s brazen enough to call me Handsome.” He snorts through a shrug, tone a little more casual. “Sometimes sugar, nimrod, or hot stuff. Honestly, I’ve heard ‘em all, so just pick one n’ I’m yer guy.”

On second thought, that came out totally wrong, worse, and more informal than it should have. Stickin’ with formal, he decides, as he clears his throat before glancing down at the chart. It’s already been filled out, but he ignores the checkmarks on the survey and the questions that have been previously asked as proper protocol because whoever asked them before wasn’t him.

“Need anythin’? A snack? Ice fer yer lips? You order dinner yet? I know it’s late, but the kitchen’s always open.” Oh shit, he’s rambling like an idiot now. He really should’ve thought this through. “Aside from the special, they’ve got some real good lasagna tonight… or was it tilapia?”

Daryl pauses to flip through the papers attached to the clipboard, grumbling incoherently when he can’t find the menu even after turning over every single one and suddenly feeling like a clown in nurse’s clothing under Rick’s stare. He doesn’t meet it fully, but he can feel the uninterested vibes streaming his way on a mental frequency, which has him concluding his search on the spot and cobbling together what he can.

“Don’ matter which one they got or don’t got.” Daryl sighs as he waves the clipboard towards the door, wrist flexible and limp with it. “I personally know the lunch lady, so I’m sure I can get ya… both?”

It isn’t meant to be a question, but Daryl loses focus as Rick’s attention slowly tows away from him and rolls towards the ceiling, neck movement stiff and jaw uptight.

“Or I can go grab ya another menu so you can pick n’ choose yerself… It’ll be no trouble. Really.” Daryl doesn’t move, but he tries to make eye-contact again by leaning forward a little, head tilted. It almost happens, but Rick counters him by looking farther right. “What about pain killers?” Daryl tries again. “How ya doin’ on those? Ya remember when yer last dosage was? …Wha’do they have ya on?”

The last question’s spoken more for Daryl himself, but he leaves it up for interpretation as he tucks the clipboard under his arm and moves a hand around the pole to check the IV bag for a medical label, also fondling it to see how much saline’s left.

“The chart…” Rick murmurs, and Daryl stills at how the man’s voice sounds like nettles against his eardrums. Scratchy. Maybe he should’ve asked Rick if he needed a drink instead?

“What about it?” Daryl asks innocently as he turns back towards the bed.

“Last line.”

“Last line?” He repeats.

“Notes section. What’s it say?”

Daryl holds the chart out in front of him, skimming down the page until the bottom with a deep squint. He bites his lower lip for a second. “The patient requests’ta be left alone.” He reads aloud.

Rick hums at the phrase like there’s nothing more to say, and Daryl finds himself nodding, hands raised in an apology. It looks like this is it for now. There’s no going against an obligation that’s already been decided, no matter how difficult it is to comply with, and he respectfully takes a step back, knowing that he’s overstayed his welcome.

“‘K.” Daryl’s still nodding as he returns the chart to where he found it, on the side table beside the bed. “But if ya change yer mind, just lemme know, a’lright? The buzzer’s right…” He points before he remembers Rick isn’t looking at him, rather the ceiling. “…there. On yer left. I’m just one click away.”

At that, Daryl shows himself out and closes the door behind him, resting against it resignedly before he makes his way to the nurses’ station where he hopelessly waits for that click all night, telling himself that it’ll come.

But in the end, it never does.


	2. Coming Up Roses

Around dawn the next morning, Daryl tiredly finds himself holed up in the hospital’s locker room. The need for a change of clothes had initially carried him here from the nurses’ station, but ever since straddling the bench in a sit, resting his elbows on the tops of his knees, and screwing the heels of his palms into the sockets of his eyes, the thought to ‘follow through’ has mulishly turned into ‘in a minute.’

So far that’s been five, but Daryl could care less.

A break should feel like a break. From all the wondering and worrying he’s been doing all night, Lordy knows he deserves one. A _real_ one. Twirling around aimlessly in those crap-o desk chairs they got going at the station and waiting on time hand-and-foot ain’t the most trusted form of relaxation and nowhere does it even cut close to Daryl’s idyllic definition of ‘downtime.’

Doing nothing—as he’s come to discover—is technically still doing something but with no progression. It’s still boring and it’s still time-consuming.

Using the locker room as a temporary break room isn’t much of a step-up from unexciting, or anywhere closer to being comfier, but Daryl isn’t really concerned about comfort. If he was, he would’ve settled into one of the snug lounge chairs out in the hall instead, not come in here to be sandwiched between two walls of gaudy, cerulean-blue lockers.

Whoever thought of painting them such a color must’ve really had it out for somebody, but that’s beside the point.

Right now all Daryl really cares about is finding peace. He just needs a quiet place to take it easy, to recuperate from his nightlong shift, and pull his thoughts together.

The half-full Styrofoam cup of coffee he has set down in front of him on the bench and between his parted thighs was supposed to act as a helper in that regard, but so far its caffeine kick has been evading him. He almost expected as much, given that the beans taste about as fresh as what all them cops rumoredly serve downtown at the precinct, but anticipating the setback and feeling it are like water and wine, fantasy and reality.

The disappointment is still very real in the end, and whilst under its spell it has Daryl moping because he’s done in like nobody’s business. Honestly, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever felt this beat, but he figures the explanation behind it is a simple one, better yet, can be summed in two words.

Rick Grimes.

Intentional or not, the man certainly knows how to leave an impression and Daryl wouldn’t call it ‘interest,’ but not once has he stopped thinking about him. How he is, if he’s awake by now, if he’s eaten, if his mood’s improved, what tests need to be run on him next, why hasn’t Harrison Memorial faxed over his records yet… how their meeting could’ve gone some other way.

Fuck. That one’s the kicker, and if Daryl had slept a wink he’s pretty sure he would’ve dreamed it had out of pining.

Embarrassingly, his brain has done it once before, teased him about winning the lottery, good money he could do with, but he supposes this is different. The _emotions_ are different, and if he thinks in more positive terms there’s a small part of him—a very small part—that’s almost glad he skipped out on the whole forty winks.

Exhaustion aside, staying up has actually given him time to accept things, and he has accepted the situation as  _what happened, happened,_  but there’s no denying how the tables have turned on him in the process. They have, and instead of feeling unsuccessful about what he set out to be, a friend, Daryl is now stuck with the aspiration of making Rick’s case a personal one.

Nurses aren’t really supposed to make such connections with their patients, as far as Daryl’s aware, but there’s just something about Rick he’s come to like in their less-than-successful-introduction. He can’t put his finger on what exactly, but regardless of what it is it has him wanting to go back, to try harder. Maybe it’s because…

Daryl scoffs and screws the heels of his palms deeper into his eyes to rid them of any lingering sleep. Nah. He can’t start thinking like that. This ain’t about Merle. This is about paying it forward, he tries to remind himself before dropping his hands to his thighs with a waking snap and making his mind up that it’s time to switch shirts.

It’s what he came here to do, after all, and after a weary grunt he stands, steps away from the bench and towards his locker, and strips the top of his old scrubs from his body and over his head. He’s pleased to find that it comes off no trouble, and he uses a hand to flatten any static to his hair that might’ve been caused by the friction of the fabric before he starts fiddling with the combination dial of his locker.

The locker room door opens up to his right just as he’s ringing in his last number, the light from the hall cutting away at the tiled floor around, and as Shane enters—somewhat distracted and wrapped up in what sounds like some ending conversation outside—Daryl hurriedly finishes and snatches for his extra shirt. This one is still ceil blue, go figure, and he throws it on with the same swiftness, pulling it over his woman beater undershirt to hide his negative body image and self-conscious scars.

With how long he’s been working here at Grady, it’s no new news that he has them, but he prefers keeping the attention towards them to a minimal ‘cause they ain’t pretty.

“Hey, man.” Shane clears his throat as he becomes more focused, the door now shutting behind him.

Daryl acknowledges the greeting with a silent nod. He doesn’t move his feet from where he’s standing, but as he fixes his new shirt he twists at the waist to show that he wants to maintain his space as Shane strolls over to the wall of lockers behind him. Shane seems to get the message and keeps the bench between them as a sort of divider as he starts rotating the knob of his combination dial a few times. It releases audibly with a metallic click and sharp tug moments later.

“You look like shit.” Shane sneaks a peek over his shoulder while shuffling through his effects.

“Late night.” Daryl grunts as he balls up his old shirt and pitches it into his locker.

“That bad, huh?” Shane smiles. “Oh, yeah… Here. You forgot this.”

Daryl watches diagonally as Shane fumbles around in his pockets and throws something down onto the bench between them. He sees what looks like a folded ten-dollar bill first, but it’s his e-cig he pitched at Shane yesterday that makes itself known by sound before that. It bounces around like one of those six-points in the game of Jacks, hitting the hard wood in clicks and clacks, and it’s what Daryl predictably reaches for and holds in his hands like it’s a childhood possession he hasn’t seen in years.

Smoking it right here and now is the temptation, but knowing Shane, the asshole probably did something to it out of spite so that’s no doubt a bad idea. Oh well.

“I tossed it.” Daryl corrects before chucking the e-cig into his locker to join his old scrubs shirt. “There’s a difference.” 

“Sure there is.”

“An’ what’s this fer?” Daryl soon scoops up the ten-dollar bill.

“He’s yours.” Shane mumbles through the textile of his off-work shirt as he busily works away at removing it. His mouth makes a little, contented ‘ahh’ sound as his head finally breaks from the neckline, face red with circulation and the concentration of lifting his arms.

“Who?” Daryl asks as he snaps his locker shut. He tries not to stare at Shane’s ripped and perfectly-rounded abs, but holy mother of balls the guy’s toned as hell. Any Greek god would be jealous.

“Rick Grimes?” Shane doesn’t seem to notice the gawking as he brows at Daryl over his shoulder while pulling out his uniform. The look behind it says that it isn’t like him to be so forgetful. “Ring a bell?” He asks as he slips on his top and steps out of his loosely-tied sneakers and jeans, jumping his scrub bottoms up and over his well-padded gray briefs within the next few seconds.

“What?” Daryl frowns. Despite the sleep swimming around in his head, he clearly remembers that he _didn’t_ make the bet yesterday in the cafeteria. “Why’s ‘e mine?”

“Have you met the guy?” Shane laughs. His attitude is hypercritical as he finishes up in his locker, slams it shut, and fixes his twisted necklace with a few tugs before facing Daryl. “Now, I don’t care if some greenhorn was bullied into writin’, _patient requests to be left alone_ …” He pauses to step back into his sneakers and, with a little bit of Captain, props his right leg onto the bench to fix the laces of that shoe. “I gotta job to do, man. Ya know what I mean?”

Shane looks up at Daryl for a reaction, smile cocky, as he swaps his right foot for his left, hands efficiently working away on those laces as well. Daryl almost rolls his eyes. Based on Shane’s quoting tone, he’s almost positive that the man must’ve told Rick those exact words… That couldn’t have gone well.

“I dunno. Didn’t seem so bad.” Daryl shrugs out of sympathy.

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Shane slaps his own thigh like he would a nurse’s ass to be flirtatious as he straightens out, both shoes back on the floor. “I popped in just this mornin’ to get introductions outta the way and he open-fired on me. What kinda soul does that? The crazy kind, that’s what. Man, the guy’s a fuckin’ Looney!”

Daryl shakes his head. Merle’s a Looney. Rick ain’t.

“He’s been hurt, Shane.” Daryl can’t believe they’re going over this again as he snatches up his neglected Styrofoam cup of coffee from the bench. He points a finger with the same hand. “He’s got every right’ta be angry.” He adds, then holds out the bill in the other. “An’ I can’t accept this.”

“Well, too bad.” Shane ticks.

“Take it back.” Daryl extends his arm further, only to have it slapped away.

“Not a chance.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” Shane agrees like he couldn’t care less if he’s destitute ten-dollars and that unsettles Daryl.

He falls quiet as he turns the bill over in his hands, feeling the texture between his fingers. The mounting silence gives him a minute to hold it towards the ceiling and get a good look at the president’s face against the light, and he’s relieved to find that it ain’t Monopoly money. It isn’t like he thought it’d be—actually, that’s _exactly_ what he thought—but Shane had pulled a fast one on him just last month in a similar context. Handed him a five beyond-recognition and asked for a beverage from the cafeteria.

Daryl can still remember how pissed he was when Carol told him he was swindled, so he doesn’t feel all that bad about checking the money’s validity in Shane’s face. Although, one question does still remain for him.

“‘Ey, why’d ya only give me a ten?” Daryl asks after a beat. “Thought it was twenty?” Not that it really matters, because he never accepted the dumb bet in the first place.

“Oh, it was.” Shane says. “But he was assigned to me. I’m _givin’_ him to you. Happy Birthday, man.” He salutes before he collects his things and moves over to be by the door, which he opens to reveal the busying hall on the other side. Between the two of them that’s as far as _see ya later_ goes it seems, and just like that Shane steps into the stream of doctors and other nurses and disappears.

“Ain’t my birthday…” Daryl grumbles before downing what’s left of his crappy coffee and following suit. He manages to catch the door with the tip of his shoe before it closes and he crunches the flimsy cup in his hands in preparation of tossing it into a trash bin outside in the hall. The nearest one is ten-feet. He shoots, he scores.

_“What? It’s your birthday?”_

A soft and gentle voice steals Daryl’s attention away from celebrating his victory, and as he turns around he spots Beth Greene, the florist girl, staring his way. Blue eyes kind, smile curious, and golden hair frizzy and pulled back into a ponytail. This has to be her third time in here this week delivering flowers to folks who have ordered bouquets or whoever wants to grab one last minute, and even though they’ve only really talked once or twice during her run-ins—about simple stuff, like the color of his hair, a brown tinted blue in the right or wrong light, and how good she is at playing away on the hospital’s piano, singing in accompaniment too—that’s all it seems to take to become friends nowadays.

Daryl sighs. Trust Shane to make a mess of things.

“Nah. It ain’t. Prick’s a liar.” He responds and watches as Beth’s mouth makes a tiny but understanding ‘O.’ He likes how uncomplicated they can be, their relationship, at least, but at the same time he can’t help but feel the tiniest bit awkward.

Though he always has around girls.

Growing up with no security of a mother-figure in his life, Daryl has developed an inability to relate to the opposite sex. With his ma snuffed too soon because of an accidental house fire, the only connection he was left with was his brother and pop. But in a way, they didn’t really count. Merle was sick in the head and hardly ever there at home, and his ol’ man was always drowning in alcohol. As far as bonds went, all Daryl really had to relate to were a pair of drunken fists to his face and a strap to his back, and it was that kind of hurt that led to his detachment to others at a young age, now leaving him yearning after that affection and soul-searching for a connection.

Acceptance. That’s all he wants. He’s tired of rejection. Silence is also in there somewhere, but that’s easily fixable. Alienation ain’t.

“Sorry.” Daryl fidgets when noticing Beth becoming restless from his prolonged quietude. “Rough night.”

“Well, I got just the thing for you, then.” Beth perks up almost immediately as she shuffles around the bouquet in her arms. “Here.” She pulls a red rose from the middle of the bunch. “This one’s for you.” Her steps are shy as she holds it out and walks forward, but once close enough she practically shoves it into his chest like a Valentine’s gift to a crush.

“Easy, girl.” Daryl puffs like he’s just had the wind knocked from him as he tries not to upset the half-opened bud and crinkle it with his big hands. “These things got thorns.”

“Nope. Smooth touch.” Beth says with a proud cockle of her chin. “They’re hybrids. Grown like that.”

“Oh.” Daryl nods a few times as he wiggles the stem of the rose between his fingers, taking in the velvety texture. He can practically smell the sweet, milky scent emanating from the petals like perfume without it being fully under his nose. “Then, thanks for the, uh…” He gestures the plant in a small wave, like he’s unsure about what else to say about it, and Beth seems to realize her mistake.

“I know, it’s stupid.” She blurts like she’s suddenly wondering why she even bothered giving a man a silly flower in the first place. “But there’s that sayin’, y’know?”

“Flowers got sayin’s?” That sounds ridiculous. “Get outta here.”

“No. I’m serious. ‘Flowers are the sweetest things God ever made and forgot to put a soul into.’” Beth quotes strongly. “Even heard there’s been a study that they can brighten your day and bring happiness to others.” She gives a tiny shrug, adjusting the bouquet as she does. “I dunno if it’s for everybody, but they put me in high spirits, anyway.”

“That so, huh?” Daryl muses. He can’t believe he’s actually getting a lecture on the language of flowers from a girl half his age, but if there is scientific truth to such words like Beth says there is this just might be his second wind. “‘Ey… ya wouldn’t mind if I passed this on’ta somebody who needs it more than me, would’ya?” He shifts uneasily as he studies her face, awaiting her reaction. Judgment? Heartbreak?

Instead, it’s neither. Beth just smiles the most considerate of smiles Daryl’s ever seen.

“Honestly…” She waves her goodbye shyly as she’s summoned away, most likely by a potential customer. “I’d rather see it put to good use.”

Daryl would too, somewhere far from his not-so-green-thumb, and after Beth vanishes down the hall and from view he wiggles the rose’s stem in between his fingers again. This time thoughtfully.

Making up his mind, he turns towards the elevator down the hall and presses the ‘up’ arrow for the third floor.


	3. Not All Roses

Fresh off the elevator, Daryl is more than happy to find the movement on the third floor like rush hour recovery: unhurried. It’s a nice change from the busyness of yesterday, giving him plenty of legroom to avoid fellow coworkers within a six-foot radius, and with that leeway he walks at his own pace and within his own space.

Turning his first corner, his travels go without hindrance. But as he rounds his second, he has to pause mid-stride for an abandoned cleaning cart in the middle of the isle, which takes up the length of three bodies standing shoulder to shoulder. Under normal conditions, he wouldn’t blink twice about walking around it, but since he’s not on any particular schedule today he decides to wait patiently for Eugene, the janitor, to move it.

Like a mix of intuition and because he just knows things, Eugene seems to sense Daryl’s presence behind him even with his head swallowed up by the open door of the custodial closet. He immediately stops his rummaging and straightens up.

Similar to Daryl and his by-the-book scrubs, Eugene’s got a uniform on too; a light gray-blue top and dark gray pants.

“How do you do.” Eugene greets in a fat-lipped mumble as he reaches for the handlebar of his cart. The rubber wheels squeak loudly as he pulls it out of the isle and to the side to let Daryl pass.

Daryl nods his thanks. “Dig the new ‘do, man.” He motions to his own head of hair in reference to Eugene’s mullet before continuing on his way. He catches a small smile tweaking away at Eugene’s lips as he drifts the man by, and he himself smiles in response, because seriously. A cut like that is just too fucking awesome  _not_  to lay a compliment on.

Daryl humors the idea of letting somebody razor away at his own hair as he nears the nurses’ station, but it doesn’t go any further than his old style. Swept and dirty-blond. He used to rock a short cut, which made his root-color seem much lighter, but after growing the length out for so long he’s come to think that the medium-look suits him better. That’s obviously his personal opinion, and since nobody’s convinced him otherwise everything is as it is. Straggly and prone to grease.

Thanks to the shower he took the night before last though, his hair is nothing like that right now. It’s merely a day tamed, light on his head and smooth to the touch like the rose in his hand and the countertop of the nurses’ station, where he pauses. In a separate moment of thought, he takes a step back to sneak a hand into the big jar of lollipops on display with an overzealous rustling of the wrappers. With five or so fisted within his grasp, all poking out and crumbing together like it’s Halloween, he whistles over to the little girl in the room across from him. Her eyes light up the minute he ropes her attention.

Sophia… something. He can’t remember her last name, but the poor thing was rushed in two nights ago with a severe case of pneumonia after falling into her pool and not being found until morning. She’d gotten an upper respiratory tract infection that spread to her lungs, and needed to be put on Clarithromycin via intravenous infusion immediately. The hospital has been monitoring her symptoms and keeping her overnight for a few days. Lucky for her, she can go home tomorrow.

“Catch!” Daryl calls from outside the room’s doorway.

Just for fun, he readies her with an exaggerated hurl like he’s tossing a baseball and smiles cheekily when she puts out her hands in anticipation. Sophia quickly pouts at the deception, and Daryl caves. He opens his mouth slightly to signal his true in-coming and finally bends his knees, pitching her a lollipop—the purple wrapping says concord grape, the closest taste to wine kids’ll ever get before they’re legal. She amazingly catches it, but that’s because he threw it underhand.

“Later, sweetheart.” Daryl waves his goodbye, then pockets the four or five other flavors and moves on.

As he approaches room 302, he thinks about offering Rick a lollipop too—the man seems like he’d be a sour apple—but from grown man to grown man that’d be totally weird. A rose comes in close second, but at least Beth would know why he did it. Like she’d said, it’s supposed to hold the power to brighten somebody’s day. Minus the misguided message of love behind the color, that’s exactly what Daryl’s hoping the flower can do. It’s a long-shot, he knows, but he’s prepared to try anyway.

_Somebody’s gotta_ , he tells himself. Yet, despite his good intentions, any optimism he has quickly nosedives the minute he walks through the open door of room 302 and sees Rick’s eyes roll to the ceiling. There’s even a sigh afterwards and hearing it sinks Daryl’s whole chest. Should he take that as a bad sign?

“You’re up.” He’s up. Duh. Daryl nearly slaps himself silly. What kind of icebreaker is that?

Not the best, apparently, because Rick remains stiff-lipped and silent.

Fuck. Daryl fidgets, and somehow the hand with the rose finds its way behind his back like it’s hiding for him. Now wouldn’t be a good time to present it, it seems. He’ll have to wait and try again… maybe after going over protocol first?

Deciding that that’s what he’ll do, Daryl nears the side table and does the same thing he did last night. He picks up the chart and quietly glances over any damage Shane might’ve done earlier. Fortunately, everything looks the same except one section, and while reading over that information, Daryl has to double-glance when noticing that a sedation has been administered.

Ketamine. It’s for pain relief, among other things, but if Daryl remembers correctly there are some side effects, a couple of which include muscle rigidity and aggressive behavior. Great. He’s already got an eye out for the five stages of grief, and although he’s not too sure which one he saw yesterday, anger is bound to be somewhere in the mix. If he takes that into account and throws Ketamine into the crossfire… Oh boy.

“How was yer sleep?” Daryl tries again, testing the waters with a more generic question. As he sets the clipboard back down, his eyes subtly drift away from it and over to Rick.

Being early morning, rays of sunlight are beginning to squeeze through the blinds of the room’s window, casting gentle, jail-bar-like patterns across Rick’s face. They’re hot-white in color, full of vitamin C, but the light created from them isn’t powerful enough to erase his dark complexion. He still looks lemony and drained, so Daryl’s hoping the question will be answered truthfully, that way he can help the man out and make his stay as comfortable as possible. When Rick makes no attempt for conversation however, not even a glance to spare, Daryl decides that he’s going to have to give some to get some. He curls his toes in his shoes.

Well… here goes nothing.

“I brought ya somethin’.” Daryl says and hesitantly makes a withdrawn gesture with the rose in hand. He notices that the petals are just now starting to open once it’s held straight in front of him. “Beth. The, uh, the girl passin’ out flowers? Ya might’a seen her earlier. She gave me this, but I thought ya might like it instead. I’m, uh… Yeah, just gonna leave it here.” He puts it on the side table beside the bed and feels good, real good. That wasn’t so hard. “Gimme a minute an’ I’ll go n’ grab an extra vase. There’s gotta be one lyin’ around this place somewhe—”

“I don’t want it.” Rick says and it’s a complete shutdown, a worded wall of negativity that divides them both in a single second. There’s no need to elaborate because Daryl gets the picture, no matter how sad, but Rick goes the extra mile to spell it out for him. In a reach, he not only wastes his strength, but slaps the rose from the table and to the floor like it’s an eyesore.

Daryl stands by mutely, but can’t help and feel wrecked on the inside as he watches the small flower hit the PVC. It doesn’t belong there atop the cold tiles. It’s too pretty. It deserves better. Don’t it?

The tips of Daryl’s bangs touch his eyes as he pulls them up from the floor and he ends up squinting one. “C’me on.” His tone softens with his coax. He really wants to retrieve the fallen rose, but doesn’t know if it’d be too soon. To be safe, he’ll leave it for now. “Don’ be like that, man. Gotta admit. It kinda brightens up the room—”

“Don’t _man_ me. And I said,  _I don’t want it_!” Rick shoots off and then cringes at the slightest raise in his own voice. His arms go tense moments later, fingers curling inward, into a state of tension. “Christ.” He grips at the sheets for the time being, breaths staccato and upward. “Don’t, don’t make me repeat myself!”

“Al’right… al’right. OK.” Daryl shrinks a little. He puts his hands up after a beat to show he means no harm. “‘Ey. I’m right here, Rick. Right here, in front’a ya.”

Even though Rick isn’t fully looking at him, Daryl—like he’s been trained to do—makes the best effort he can to let Rick know he sees him. In most cases, it’s supposed to make the patient realize his or her actions and immediately calm them. That’s in  _most_  cases, though, not all.

“I know—”

“What the hell could you  _possibly_  know?” Rick snorts through his nose, then goes awfully quiet, like he’s chewing over some internal conversation in his head.

Daryl takes a deep breath, trying to stand his ground and not walk out the door. There’s a song for this, for how unwelcome he feels, but he’ll survive. “I know that you’re stressed. That you’re scared. That you’re in  _pain_ …” That seems to be the only word Rick reacts to with how his eyelashes flutter. “Talk to me.” Without shouting, please. “That’s what I’m here for: to help. Just tell me what I can do. I ain’t the enemy.”

Under some miracle, Rick at least lets Daryl finish speaking this time around, but there’s barely a second after all is said before he’s laughing out loud, real harpy-like, like he’s lost it.

“Really? You… you wanna help me? Is that it? A nobody like you wants to  _help me_?” Rick asks and there’s that stereotypical lawyer tone. Loud and stuck-up. Daryl’s slightly rattled by it, but he doesn’t show it, not until Rick throws an arm out at a swiftness he shouldn’t be using and manages to grab him by the lower half of his scrubs shirt. From the looks of things, he was originally aiming for Daryl’s collar, but such intent died the minute his face scrunched up in pain instead of rage. “Then you can  _help me_ , by gettin’ the hell outta here, that’s how you can  _help me_!Get out!”

Rick’s voice nearly cracks, except, unlike his words telling Daryl to leave, he doesn’t let go. He can’t. His grip is affected by tension again, muscle rigidity, and his knuckles bleach white. They clench tighter and tighter in response to the agony shooting through his spine.

“Get, get out! Get OUT! GET OUT!”

The volume of Rick’s voice alone sounds like it’s trying to push Daryl out of the room, and like a deer in the headlights Daryl stands perfectly still. He doesn’t struggle to reclaim his shirt, doesn’t push Rick away, and is only snapped out of his trance when a couple floor nurses, Shane included, rush in with their code gray. Gray for  _violent patient_.

Rick is restrained in that instant, hands pried from their hold then held flat against the bed, and it kills Daryl to watch as another form of sedation—Benzodiazepine, no doubt— is dispensed into the IV bag for immediate release. True to its class, the drug takes ahold as it should: fast. No sooner than the needle is removed from the lining of the bag, the contents all good and squeezed from the barrel and mixed among the saline, Rick’s eyes close forcibly as if weighted by tiny dumbbells. In a matter of five seconds, he’s completely out, his face misleadingly peaceful.

Looking at him now, you’d never guess he was just screaming his head off like a banshee, but what’s that saying about looks?

It’s the same as books and covers. Or that’s at least how Daryl has always understood it, and he’s not about to change his way of thinking and start judging others outwardly because of a one-time episode. Rick deserves as much forgiveness as an injured dog striking out in pain. He doesn’t know any better because he’s hurting, and Daryl’s prepared to give Rick that excuse even if the rose he brought is now being crushed beneath multiple pairs of shoes like it was a beautiful thought unworthy of fruition.

It’s naive of him, Daryl knows it is just as much as he knows that help has to be wanted to be accepted and that he’ll run out of ways to pardon Rick’s behavior eventually, but it’s all or nothing. Either he lets Rick redeem himself or he commits to being the guy’s nurse and _only_ his nurse, not a friend. It’s Rick’s call. Daryl’s not holding his breath for any improvement today, but there’s always tomorrow. That’s something to look forward to, he supposes, and walks out on that belief, well aware that for the rest of his shift ‘blue’ is no longer just the color of his eyes.

It’s the color of his mood, too.


	4. You're The Doctor

_“Daryl. Hey. Daryl? Have you been here all night?”_

“What?” Daryl slowly lifts his head away from his forearm, an appendage of his that’s sort of become his poor man’s pillow over the years. His mouth feels three hours dry—crusted with drool, too—as he stifles a yawn, and he’s embarrassed to find out if that’s how long he’s really been out as he looks up to see a pair of eyes staring down at him with legit concern.

They belong to Dr. Aaron.

Daryl suddenly realizes this after he blinks away any remaining sleep, watches a charming smile form, and notices the pristine white coat covering a navy blue scrubs that’s so wrinkle-free it’s no secret Aaron irons the damn thing daily. There’s also that cologne he’s constantly wearing, honey fruit or sometimes dark spice, and Daryl wonders why he didn’t smell the guy sooner. He usually does.

“Doc.” Daryl quickly wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand before standing up straight. His rise is so fast that the backs of his knees accidentally bunt the edge his chair, spinning the seat behind him like a carousel.

If you didn’t know somebody was just sitting in it, you’d think the _Invisible Man_ was real.

“You’ve been working here, what, two years now? I think it’s about time you called me _Aaron_.” Aaron chuckles as he pulls the teal folder he’s brought with him out from under his arm, sets it down onto the counter, and opens it. Picking up a pen from the crowded cup on his right, he clicks the button at the tip and scribbles his signature onto a few lines of paperwork.

“Aaron. Sure.” Daryl mumbles as he observes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Aaron keeps his smile as he turns a page over to glimpse at what’s detailed on the back. “In fact, I should be the one apologizing.”

Daryl arches a brow. “Fer what?”

“Well…” Aaron pauses to turn between a few more pages, expression a little more solemn. “For disturbing you like I did. I mean, with everything that happened yesterday, it’s understandable that—”

“Hold up.” Daryl feels his cheeks burn. Fuck, he better not be blushing. “Ya heard about that?”

“I did.” Aaron admits with a small glance, and the concern is back in his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“M’fine.” Daryl says, shrugging the question off before crossing his arms the Dixon way, which involves tucking his hands so far into his pits that everything except his thumbs disappear.

The pose itself speaks towards defensive behavior, making it obvious that he’s anxious about where this talk is headed, but he can’t help it. Between Rick still being a tender subject and his brain now being over-presumptuous about who the fuck told Aaron what, he’s got every right and only one guess: Shane. Because, come on. The douche bag’s got a big mouth that he just loves to run. Everybody knows that. And he ran it, didn’t he?

Bet he did. Daryl snorts, and the sound is too loud for its own good. Aaron’s doe-like eyes lift briefly.

“ _Fine_?” Aaron quotes. It’s his turn to arch a brow. “Nice try, Daryl, but it’ll take more than one word to convince me of that… Maybe a smile?” He looks for one, but Daryl shies away.

“Can’t.”

“Why?” Aaron asks.

Daryl shrugs a second time, and when he can’t answer Aaron’s nose is once again glued downward and towards his paperwork. The pen scribbles away at two more lines with a signature and another page is turned.

“Have you at least been in to see him today?” Aaron inquires without glancing up as he checks something off. Then something else.

“No.” Daryl eventually works up to saying. He hasn’t. He’s actually spent the whole morning wondering if he should give Rick Grimes his desired ‘alone time’ or not, maybe try a different approach if he can. He just hasn’t figured out what that ‘approach’ should be yet.

“Daryl…” Aaron sighs, seeing the dilemma here. He puts his pen down and folds his hands atop his folder. “I understand that Rick’s not the nicest apple in the orchard, but you can’t just neglect him. He’s your patient. He depends on you.”

“Ain’t neglectin’ ‘im.” Daryl fidgets, feeling his palms getting sweaty and nervous under his pits. He unfolds his arms from his chest and plops his hands onto his hips to dry off. Somewhere in between he considers biting on a thumbnail like it’s a chew toy, but on second thought it’d probably taste more like latex rubber than salty skin. So forget it. “M’ just… givin’ ‘im space.”

Like thirty-feet of space.

Daryl’s not kidding. The longer he thought about going in to see Rick this morning, the colder and colder his feet got.

It’s embarrassing, but even with a night’s worth of good intentions behind him and a ‘supposed’ clean slate, just walking by the door of room 302 had his chest pounding like a damn ten-year-old terrified of the dark. He couldn’t stop worrying that he might screw something else up, and if the door was open he would’ve went as far as avoiding the room like a closet homing the boogeyman, no matter how out of his way.

Since it wasn’t—thank fucking physics for that—he was spared the heart-attack and the horror of having Rick push him away again, which has left him as he is in his current state: seeking comfort at the nurses’ station.

Merle would call him a pussy.

“He really got to you, huh?” Aaron says after a minute, and Daryl looks up to find Aaron’s eyes still on him.

Double fuck. Daryl knows he’s blushing now, and as he lowers his head and nods, seeing no other way around admittance, Aaron’s features soften.

“You know what?” Straightening out, Aaron re-files his paperwork into his folder, shuffles it closed, and picks it up, only to slap it loudly onto the counter like a judge’s mallet in court. “I was originally going to schedule this for tomorrow, but I guess we could do it today. Think you can fit one more thing in before I send you home?”

“Don’ see why not, so—”

“Great.” Aaron interrupts as he walks over to the nearest custodial closet, opens the door, and disappears behind it like Houdini. He reappears seconds later holding a bucket, and the second Daryl sees it he cringes. By the time it’s proffered he’s as stiff as a board, and before he can think about moving away Aaron’s leaning over the countertop and grabbing him by the wrist, forcing him to take it.

Triple fuck. The contents inside the plastic container rattle almost mockingly as the bucket swaps hands, and no amount of courage can make Daryl look inside. Please, no.

“I’m sure you know what to do with that.” Aaron addresses the bucket with his eyes as he recollects his folder, the pen included. He then moves over to be by the flapped access of the nurses’ station, which he soon opens in an offer to let Daryl out from behind the counter, like a horse into a derby lane. And does Daryl want to run like the wind.

“You’re jokin’, right?” Daryl asks as frank as he can, figuring that it’s less whiny than his longer version of:

_I can’t go back in there. Thought I could, but s’too soon. Don’t make me, Doc. Sorry… Aaron. I ain’t ready. There’s a cannon aimed at that door n’ it’s gonna blow my fuckin’ head off the minute I walk in._

“Relax.” Aaron chuckles as if he can read the hesitation and inadequacy on Daryl’s face. “I’ll go with you.”

“…Really?” Daryl perks a little, tone more curious than dubious. “…You’d do that?”

“Absolutely.” Aaron nods. He still has the flapped access open and naturally beckons Daryl to come on out with a sweep of his arm, folder and all. “We’ll talk to Rick about his predicament. Maybe it’ll help put things in perspective.”

Daryl makes a small contemplative noise with his mouth as he moves the bucket around in his hands, but other than that he doesn’t make any sort of effort to budge. Aaron smiles.

“Hey. I’ve dealt with other patients like him before. Took a few classes in Psychology, even. Hell, my partner was just like him when we first met.” Aaron reminisces lightheartedly. “God, Eric was such a mess after breaking his ankle. You have to understand, as an athlete it was the worst case scenario for his career, and I didn’t think he’d ever open up to me. But I was patient with him, gave him as much time as he needed to think, but not too much where I could lose him. And then one day, it just happened. I got through to him.”

Aaron holds up the hand he has preoccupied with the folder to show off his wedding finger. The ring itself is now worn from a chain around his neck during work hours, so all Daryl really sees is a white band of skin paler than the rest, but the point is made nonetheless.

“A couple years later we got married in Washington. Two months after that, we went to Canada for our honeymoon. We could see the Appalachian Mountains as we walked around our hotel day and night.” Aaron laughs. “I’m telling you. It was so romantic, literally the happiest week of my life. I must’ve cried like a baby a thousand times, especially after…”

Aaron’s voice trails when noticing that Daryl’s eyes have become downcast. He clears his throat, understanding that homosexual conversations aren’t the easiest to respond to, nor is rambling.

“What I’m trying to say, Daryl, is that your approach was a step in the right direction.” Aaron paraphrases. “Rick’ll come around. All patients do. Just keep doing what you’re doing and everything else will fall into place.”

“Yeah…” Daryl mumbles. _Right_. He wants to believe Aaron, but it’s hard when he can’t even believe himself.

Like a mind-reader, Aaron sighs. “Look. I know it sounds impossible right now, hard, and ambitious, especially since you want to be his friend first, then his nurse—which is fine, by the way.” Aaron rushes when Daryl gives him an embarrassed look. “But sometimes you have to remember that in our line of work we also have to be firm.”

“Firm?” Daryl’s voice deepens with his grumble.

“Yes, Daryl. _Firm_.” Aaron repeats. “Think of it as the new friend.”

“But—”

“Trust me on this.” Aaron’s face is eager as he turns on a heel, lets the flapped access go, and starts walking in the direction of room 302. “Come on.” He calls over his shoulder, and Daryl hesitates as the small door swings in.

It isn’t close enough to hit him, only enough to make him think, but habit has him stepping forward and catching it anyway. Snorting to himself, he knows that he’s obligated to follow-through now and glances up to track Aaron with his eyes. Rather, Aaron’s back.

“You’re the doc.” Daryl murmurs before finally creeping out from behind the nurses’ station and reluctantly playing follow-the-leader, bucket in hand like he’s going fishing.

In a weird, metaphorical sense, he kind of is. He just has to hope that Rick’s willing to accept his help this time around.

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~First chapters are always the hardest to write and the scariest to submit.~~ If you'd like to share your thoughts with us, we'd sincerely love to hear them. Thank you so much for reading! ♥x2


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